


with gently smiling jaws

by zero_project



Category: One Piece
Genre: Bargaining, Blood, Dubious Consent, Handcuffs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-13 22:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14122161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zero_project/pseuds/zero_project
Summary: "That was our deal," Straw Hat snaps. "Twelve hours with you in exchange for my crew.”“Indeed. Although I believe how we spend that time together is up to my discretion.” Crocodile taps the ash from the end of his cigar, takes a sip of brandy. It goes down bittersweet and smooth. “Lock the door behind you.”Luffy makes a deal with Crocodile for his crew's safety and gets more than he bargained for.





	with gently smiling jaws

Straw Hat comes quietly. This alone nearly catches Crocodile off guard, which only goes to show that for all the times they’ve met and clashed across the Grand Line, he still hasn’t learned how to anticipate a force like Straw Hat Luffy.

“Think of it,” Crocodile suggests, after the initial ceasefire, “as a trade of sorts to our mutual benefit. You board the Ranger for the next twelve hours. We won’t attack further. That’s not a bad deal, don’t you think?”

There’s silence on the other end of the line. From his position on deck, he can see Straw Hat with a hand on his hip, standing along the side of his ship—what’s left of it at least. The Thousand Sunny was already battered with cannon fire long before Crocodile’s crew stumbled across them, likely in a narrow escape from pursuing marines. The cook and that traitor Nico Robin are both unconscious and the swordsman is bleeding out. They might be reckless, but even Straw Hat isn’t a complete fool.

“Franky,” Straw Hat asks at last. “Is twelve hours enough time to fix Sunny?”

Crocodile hears the cyborg’s faint, derisive snort. “I’ll have it done in six.”

Straw Hat weighs this. Crocodile lights a cigar and waits.

The redhead starts crying when Straw Hat launches himself across the gap between their ships. The swordsman tries to follow him, slipping on his own blood, and Long Nose attempts to set fire to the sails of Crocodile’s ship until Daz intervenes. Straw Hat lands neatly on the deck of the Ranger. He straightens, squares his shoulders, his gaze locking with Crocodile’s. “Help Franky,” Straw Hat bellows without turning to face his crew. “I’ll be back soon.”

"Shall we?” Crocodile asks, sweeping an arm towards his cabin in mock courtesy and gets a sneer in response.

His connections in the underworld have afforded him some minor degree of luxury, even after his failure in Alabasta and his stint in Impel Down. The Ranger as a ship is just large enough to suit his purposes, as are his private quarters. Crocodile shuts the door and strolls past Straw Hat to his desk, shrugging out of his overcoat. The kid stays at the opposite end of the cabin. He examines the shelves, ignoring the books and picking up the elaborate knives and glass decanters on display, turning them over, setting them down again. His hands wander but his gaze stays on Crocodile. “You got too much stuff,” Straw Hat finally concludes, picking up a gold-plated music box and then dropping it back onto the shelf with a discordant twang. He turns to face Crocodile head on; his right hand flexes, the knuckles popping. “So,” he says.

“So?” Crocodile asks, interested, and rolls up his shirtsleeves.

“We doing this in here or what?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Straw Hat grunts in irritation. He flexes his left hand, rolls his shoulders a few times to loosen them up. “We gonna fight?”

Crocodile sinks into his armchair. He crosses his legs and uncorks a bottle of brandy they picked up in the last port they ransacked. “I have no intention of fighting you.” It’s deeply gratifying to see Straw Hat pause, just for a second, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his expression.

“Then what?” Straw Hat snaps. “That’s what you said. Twelve hours with you.”

“Indeed. Twelve hours with me. Although I believe how we spend that time together is up to my discretion.” Crocodile taps the ash from the end of his cigar, takes a sip of brandy. It goes down bittersweet and smooth. “Lock the door behind you.”

Straw Hat stands frozen. A small furrow has appeared between his eyebrows. Crocodile sets down his glass and drums his fingers against the shell of his den den mushi. “It hasn’t even been ten minutes, boy,” he says, amused. “Should I tell Daz our deal is off? He can have the cannons ready in just a moment.”

Straw Hat shakes his head.

“Then lock the door.”

Straw Hat’s arm snakes out. He still doesn’t break his gaze from Crocodile’s as he fumbles and finds the latch. The deadbolt slides into place.

“Good,” Crocodile says. “Now come here.”

Straw Hat takes a step, and then another. For someone so fast he moves slowly, circling around the desk. Crocodile leans back in his seat and takes his time looking the kid over. Straw Hat’s taller after two years, but only by a little — still almost as small and scrawny as Crocodile remembers him. His face has grown leaner with age though, and he’s traded out his old vests for a jacket that displays a well-defined chest and the deep scar carved into it. Crocodile takes a long drag off his cigar.

“We’re not gonna fight,” Straw Hat says, despite the way his hands are curled into fists and his entire body is rigid with the impulse to attack. Crocodile hears the comprehension starting to dawn at last in his voice.

“No,” Crocodile says. “We’re not. Still having second thoughts?”

Straw Hat kicks off his sandals by way of answer. He removes his hat and reaches back across the room to place it on the coat stand in the corner. “You said it was a deal. Me for my crew? That’s a fair trade."

Straw Hat isn’t smiling. Crocodile has encountered him more often than he’d personally care for, and he’s familiar with loud, cheerful idiot, the teenager who’s content to play the moron. He’s also met the other boy; the one who doesn’t laugh so easily; the one who’s quiet, dangerous. He prefers that second boy a great deal. He always has.

The kid may not be smiling, but Crocodile is. “Come closer, Straw Hat,” he says and beckons. “Let me get a better look at you."  
  
  
  
  
He used to be such a careful man. Power was something he’d bled for. Alabasta was years of patience, of scouting the perfect agents, of studying that pathetic fool Cobra, and wearing away little by little at every crack in the façade of a seemingly peaceful kingdom.

A careful man plans and waits and takes precautions. A careful man who considers himself an enemy of Straw Hat Luffy would perhaps choose to use sea stone handcuffs when in such close proximity to him. Sea stone, however, would mean rendering Straw Hat limp and mostly useless. With ordinary leather cuffs, Crocodile can feel the muscles straining beneath his hand as he lets it rest at the small of Straw Hat’s back; he can admire the cords that stand out along Straw Hat’s neck. The yellow sash he’s taken to wearing around his waist works well as a makeshift blindfold and looks good against Straw Hat’s dark, messy hair. His face is already starting to flush the way it often does during battle. And they haven’t even truly gotten started yet.

Crocodile blows a cloud of smoke in Straw Hat’s face, smirking when the kid’s nose wrinkles in disgust. “You’re much calmer than I thought you’d be,” he remarks.

“I ain’t afraid of you,” Straw Hat growls.

“I have no illusions to the contrary,” he says, idle. “But if I recall correctly, the first time we met—” he lets the tip of his hook graze along the nape of Straw Hat’s neck “—this didn’t work out so well for you.” He pauses to savor the way he can feel kid tensing just a little against him, spread thighs tightening, the line of his shoulders going stiff. Crocodile slides his hook beneath the collar of his shirt and tears through the back of it in a single, easy cut. Slashes of bright red flutter to the floor, splay across his loafers like ribbons of blood.

He leans back in his seat, settling Straw Hat more comfortably in his lap. “That’s better.”

Straw Hat’s lips pull into a snarl. Scrawny brat or not, two years have still been good for the kid. Crocodile drags his knuckles across warm, tan skin, down the kid’s bare chest to his taut stomach. His hook traces the curve of the kid’s spine. He leaves scratch marks along the jut of Straw Hat’s hip bones, lets the sharp blade curl around to nick the kid’s nipple. Straw Hat is dead still and silent through it and Crocodile’s both disappointed and amused by this, as he brings his hook to rest at the center of the scar on Straw Hat’s chest. He’s seen it in the papers, in the more recent wanted posters, but never up close. “I always thought Akainu punched right through you that day.”

“He tried,” Straw Hat says, and there’s an odd, sudden note in his voice that Crocodile’s not so sure he likes. The kid’s head cocks slightly. “You helped stop him. Jinbe told me so.”

Crocodile’s eyes narrow at the unspoken question. His hook trails a little lower until he finds what he’s really looking for: the crooked sliver of white scar tissue just below the boy’s sternum. It’s dwarfed by the larger, newer scar and faded with time; he strokes it gently with the very tip of his hook. “I’m still the only man who’s ever gutted you,” he says. “I think I’d like to keep it that way.”

He’s never seen Straw Hat blush before. Which is a shame. He wears it rather well. “And I’m still the one who beat you,” he snaps, or tries to but chokes on two of Crocodile’s fingers shoved into his mouth. Straw Hat’s face flushes an even darker shade of red and Crocodile strokes his tongue, listens to him swallow wetly. He’s always been curious to test the full extent of the kid’s rubber powers, whether his throat can expand just as easily as the rest of him or whether he’ll gag on his cock. They’ll have to go slow too, he thinks, feeling along small, sharp teeth. He gives a final experimental tug on Straw Hat’s tongue, smirking when it stretches several extra inches — promising.

He pulls his fingers out, glistening with spit, and shoves Straw Hat backwards and off his lap. The kid hits the floor with a muted thud, bouncing once, and then scrambles up onto his knees. Crocodile twists his hand into dark, greasy curls and yanks until Straw Hat shuffles reluctantly forward, between his legs. It takes another pointed tug on his hair for the kid to get the hint, and then a good minute of struggling blindly to undo his belt. Straw Hat fumbles, clumsy with his zipper, and lets out a frustrated growl. It shouldn’t be endearing, and yet Crocodile swallows a smile and finally tilts his hips up, obliging the kid.

"You know what to do, don’t you?” he asks quietly and curls the blade of his hook around the back of Straw Hat’s neck.

Straw Hat sets his jaw, even as his lips part.  
  
  
  
  
The candles have nearly burnt down to stubs. Straw Hat’s forehead rests against Crocodile’s inner thigh, panting, his breath hot even through the cotton of his trousers. Crocodile pets his hair, his thumb tracing the hollow at the base of Straw Hat’s skull. “Not bad,” he murmurs. Straw Hat shivers once in his grip.

At length, Crocodile eases himself to his feet and stretches. He leaves Straw Hat kneeling on the floor beside his chair and sets out new candles in each of the sconces. The light slowly suffuses his cabin in a soft golden glow once more. Straw Hat’s chin is smeared with drool and drying cum. His mouth already looks bruised even in the half-darkness. He’s still blindfolded but his head turns slowly, tracking Crocodile’s movements back and forth across the room.

“Hungry?” Crocodile asks. He’s met with stubborn silence, which means that Straw Hat must be starving.

He contacts the cook on the den den mushi and meets Daz at the door when he drops off the tray of food. “Negotiations going well?” Daz asks flatly.

“Well enough, I suppose,” Crocodile replies. He takes a moment to survey his crew, as the midnight watch reports for duty.  A mile out, the Thousand Sunny is aglow. The steady beat of a hammer rings out across the silence of the sea. “No attempted attacks?”

“None so far. But we’ll continue to keep an eye on them.”

“See that you do.”

Straw Hat sits up a little more when he brings the tray of food in. Crocodile sets the plate and the glass of wine on his desk. He takes a seat, nudging the plate in Straw Hat’s direction, letting the smell of steak waft toward him. The kid stirs; Crocodile sips the wine, watching him over the rim of the glass. “Are you hungry?” he asks again.

Straw Hat remains quiet but his stomach rumbles. Crocodile grins. He sets the glass down and grabs the kid by the neck, ignoring the snarl of pain as he hauls him back up into his lap. Straw Hat flails, gangly legs draped over one arm of the chair. His bound hands smack uselessly against Crocodile’s chest. “I don’t think I’ll take the handcuffs off just yet, though. You understand, don’t you?”

The kid scowls. He’s entirely too charming when he’s angry. A careful man wouldn’t be inclined to encourage that rage. But it was a careful man who let Alabasta slip through his fingers, a careful man that he chose to leave buried somewhere in the wreckage of Impel Down. Crocodile spears a piece of steak with the fork and pushes it into Straw Hat’s mouth without warning him. “We can’t have you losing stamina. You’ve hours yet to go.”

“It’s not much longer,” the kid retorts, chewing obnoxiously.

Crocodile checks his pocket watch. Nine and a half hours left. He snaps it shut and Straw Hat starts a little at the sound. “If you say so.” He feeds the steak to Straw Hat a piece at a time, watching the kid eat in greedy silence. He doesn’t seem to have considered whether or not the food might be poisoned. Perhaps because he’s an idiot. Or perhaps because the rumors he’s heard now from various arms dealers are true and poison is just one more thing that can’t hurt Straw Hat Luffy anymore. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t consider Crocodile enough of a threat. Each possibility is more irritating than the last.

When they’re done with the steak, he sets aside the fork and picks up the glass of wine. The kid smells it and turns his face away. “You must be thirsty too,” Crocodile prompts him with a smirk. “Drink up, Straw Hat.” He tips the glass forward. Straw Hat tries to lean back. Wine slops down his chin, his chest, onto the floor. “That’s an awfully expensive vintage you’re wasting.”

“I don’t like wi—” Straw Hat splutters and Crocodile makes him swallow the last of it. It puts color in the kid’s cheeks.

“You’ve made quite the mess,” Crocodile remarks, glancing at the puddle on the floor. “You could apologize at least.”

“I could,” Straw Hat snaps.

Crocodile feels the edges of his smirk go tight. “You could use better manners too, boy. You’re here at my leisure. Or would you prefer it if your crew—”

“Don’t talk about them,” Straw Hat snarls.

The sudden weight of conqueror’s haki dents his own will. In Marineford it was a raw and wild wave of power. Now though, Straw Hat wields it easily and dispassionately and Crocodile’s voice fails him for just a moment. For the first time all evening, Straw Hat grins.

Crocodile licks his lips, which have gone suddenly dry. “You’re not the captain of this ship,” he says and shoves his hook past Straw Hat’s bared teeth with a satisfying metallic clink. The tip of the hook snags on the inside of his cheek and the kid jerks in pain. Brats like Straw Hat, he’s found, always seem to be in desperate need of a firm hand. Crocodile rotates his wrist, the tip of the hook digging into Straw Hat’s tongue. “You don’t give the orders here,” Crocodile continues, “so don’t test me.” He withdraws his hook slowly.

Blood runs down Straw Hat’s chin and leaks from in between his clenched teeth. A vein pulses in his neck. He’s trembling, but not out of fear. Crocodile can’t help but smile if only out of pure spite. “Looks like you’ve got some energy back in you. Shall we pick up where we left off?”

Straw Hat answers by turning his head and spitting blood onto the floor, staining the carpet.  
  
  
  
  
The boy really does look best in red. Crocodile considers the flush of color in his face, the way he looks laid out across bed sheets the color of dark wine. Straw Hat’s jaw is clenched but Crocodile works a third finger into his body, to the knuckle, and coaxes another moan out of him. His cock is leaking against his stomach and the insides of his thighs are slippery with oil. Straw Hat strains against the handcuffs, the leather creaking in warning.

Crocodile lets his hook trail briefly across the boy’s shoulder. “None of that, now. Hips up.”

Straw Hat’s heels slip against the bed, struggling to comply. He’s all sharp angles and pure muscle, and he’s shaking a little as he fucks himself onto Crocodile’s hand.

Crocodile slides his fingers out. He leaves Straw Hat spread open and panting on the bed and returns to his desk, where he retrieves the key to the handcuffs from the top drawer. Straw Hat gives a nice, hopeful little twitch as the key turns and the cuffs finally loosen and fall to the floor. He lets the boy have a moment to crack his wrists and then sinks down onto the bed as well, the mattress dipping under his weight and tilting Straw Hat toward him.

“Come here,” Crocodile orders, leaning back against the headboard. Straw Hat crawls blindly to him and Crocodile reels him in even closer until he’s sitting astride Crocodile’s thighs once more, swaying, his legs parted invitingly. “Very good,” he says and then laughs when Straw Hat shivers, angry at the praise. His hands fist themselves in Crocodile’s shirt, wrenching until the silk rips and mother-of-pearl buttons scatter in every direction. Crocodile manages to grab one of Straw Hat’s wrists but the kid’s other hand is already at his belt again, roughly yanking the front of his pants open.

“In a hurry, are we?” he asks, grinning even wider when Straw Hat growls. He grips the kid tighter, his hook biting into Straw Hat’s shoulder as they struggle. Rivulets of blood trickle down Straw Hat’s collarbone; he makes a keening noise but Crocodile’s intimately familiar with pain, with inflicting it, and it’s not pain that Straw Hat feels as the hook digs deeper into his skin. It’s the distraction that Crocodile needs: he curls his arm around the kid’s waist, his hand reaching lower to hold the kid open long enough to sink him down onto his cock in one hard thrust. Straw Hat’s entire body arches, straining, his hips stuttering. He’s tight but he takes Crocodile easily.

“That’s it,” Crocodile murmurs. His hand finds Straw Hat’s hip and he lifts him, guides him, until the kid finally finds a rhythm. “That’s it.”

Straw Hat fucks like he fights: wanton and loose and fierce. His skin is hot to the touch, as if at any moment he might begin to let off steam. Nails claw at Crocodile’s shoulders, raking away nothing but handfuls of sand. Crocodile doesn’t kiss him but he sinks his teeth into the kid’s lower lip and bites down until he dents rubber.

Straw Hat slams his hips down hard enough to bruise and Crocodile comes inside of him, earning another little noise that’s somewhere between a growl and a whine. The kid’s half-hard and Crocodile doesn’t lift a hand to help, leaning back sated and enjoying the view. Straw Hat fucks himself into a messy orgasm of his own a few minutes later. The cut in his shoulder is deeper than Crocodile realized and blood drips steadily down Straw Hat’s chest, mingling with the splatters of cum on his stomach, staining the bedsheets.

He’s still panting raggedly when Crocodile pulls the blindfold loose. Straw Hat’s hair is damp and sticking to his forehead. His face is flushed. His eyes are very wide, but still, he makes himself meet Crocodile’s gaze.

The boy’s an utter terror. Someday he’ll be even more of a monster than he already is. Someday, Crocodile grudgingly suspects, he’ll be untouchable. His hand circles Straw Hat’s entire neck and he squeezes very lightly, just to hear Straw Hat’s breath hitch. His thumb drags along the kid’s raw and bitten mouth.

Someday. But not yet.  
  
  
  
  
His watch informs him that it’s a little past five in the morning. Crocodile shifts at his desk, pushing aside the map he’s been studying and considerations of which port to strike next. His eyes ache. He pours himself another glass of brandy. The horizon is gloomy with the promise of a distant storm and he can hear it approaching in the steady lapping of waves against the side of the Ranger, in the wind that shivers against the glass.

“You ain’t gonna sleep?”

He hadn’t realized Straw Hat was awake. Crocodile turns in his chair. The kid’s curled up on the far side of the bed where Crocodile left him after the second time they fucked. He’s still tangled up in the coat that Crocodile threw over him after he kicked the blankets off.

“Already lonely without me?” Crocodile asks, smiling thinly. Straw Hat doesn’t say anything but Crocodile sees the way his hand twitches, pulling the coat a little closer around his body. “I would get some rest if I were you. You’ve still got plenty of time left.”

They study one another. The ship creaks. Straw Hat’s eyelids droop. His head nods. Crocodile sips his brandy and watches him slump exhausted back onto the bed. The blood has dried in spider-webs across his bare shoulder, crusting on the sheets. He’ll have to put in an order for fresh linens, which won’t come cheap.

He ought to cut the boy’s throat. For ruining his bed, for being stupid enough to sleep in the presence of an enemy, for handing himself over so easily in a fool’s bargain. He ought to storm out on deck, rouse his crew, and send the Straw Hats up in flames. It’s very likely he won’t get another opportunity like this. Strategically it’s the right move. It would make the seas easier to sail and control. Without Straw Hat Luffy, he suspects the Grand Line would be a far quieter place.

Crocodile lights a new cigar for himself, breathing in clouds of heavy smoke. He listens to the steady tick of his pocket watch, to the slow rise and fall of Straw Hat’s breath, and he waits for the dawn.  
  
  
  
  
Straw Hat nearly sleeps past the deadline of their bargain. Crocodile finishes knotting his tie and then turns and kicks the bedframe, rattling the kid from slumber. “Time’s up. They’ll be waiting for you.”

He slicks back his hair with pomade and watches in the mirror’s reflection as Straw Hat dresses slowly. The cut along his shoulder is an angry red in the dim morning light. He slips his shorts and sandals back on, and then kneels and collects the tatters of his shirt from the floor. He retrieves his hat last, clutching it briefly to his chest, before he places it back on his head and pulls the brim down over his face.

At the door to his cabin, Straw Hat pauses. His hands form fists and then uncurl. His voice is low and gravelly when he speaks. “The next time I see you,” he says, “I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Crocodile laughs. “Attaboy.”

Straw Hat leaves his cabin without sparing him a backward glance.

By the time he emerges on the deck of the Ranger, the Straw Hats have already made decent headway. Their sails billow, their Jolly Roger snapping brightly in the wind as they cruise eastward. He somewhat regrets not seeing Straw Hat to his ship. He’d have liked to watch the boy cross back over, his clothing in ruins and his shoulder torn open; he’d have very much liked to see the look on his crewmates’ faces.

“We could still pursue them,” Daz interjects.

“After all of our negotiations? Hardly sporting.”

Daz hovers at his side, awaiting orders.

A sudden gust from the west tugs at the hem of his coat, scattering sparks and ash from his cigar into the air. The brine of the New World stings his face; Crocodile eyes the clouds that bloom black and ominous on the horizon. “Northwest, if you please, Mr. Bones,” he says and grins.


End file.
